


Through All Of The Shadowy Corners Of Me

by plinys



Category: Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, F/F, Pseudo-Incest, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-06
Updated: 2014-11-06
Packaged: 2018-02-24 08:43:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2575274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plinys/pseuds/plinys
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Milano, otherwise known as the best coffee shop in the galaxy, or the worst, depending on who you're asking. Owned by the one and only Peter Quill, current employees include a talking raccoon, because ladies love guys with pets (or that was his excuse when anybody asked), a living tree, the most literal barista in the world, and Gamora, former assassin and adoptive daughter of one of the galaxies biggest mob bosses (if the galaxy had mobs), not that she bothered to write any of that down on her application. Of course, peace can only last for so long before her past decides to catch up with her, this time in the form of Nebula. If their relationship status was complicated to begin with it seems to get more complicated the longer their both on planet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Through All Of The Shadowy Corners Of Me

**Author's Note:**

> Oh wow so this is my Marvel Big Bang fic, and it was so much fun to write something and be a part of this! Honestly, the inspiration for this came from somebody hitting me up on tumblr being like "lesbian space coffee shop" and I was like - yeah okay, I can do this! 
> 
> THERE WILL BE A LINK TO THE AMAZING ART THAT WAS MADE FOR THIS FIC REAL SOON, OKAY??

The Milano is known as either the best coffee shop in the galaxy or the worst, depending on who you’re asking.

If somebody had asked for her opinion the day before she was hired there, Gamora probably would have agreed with the pessimists, she would have wrinkled her nose at the notion that a place like that could flourish in the metropolitan areas of one of Xandar’s largest cities.

One look at the obnoxious orange and blue paint scheme would have been enough for her to rule it out as some sort of tourist trap nothing of note.

Truth be told, had it not been for her almost desperation she never would have crossed the threshold of the building, let the little bell chime announcing her arrival, and order any of the mysterious concoctions written on the board in nearly impossible to read handwriting.

But desperate times called for desperate measures, and the _help wanted_ sign in the window had been just what she had needed.

That and the fact that the owner of the shop, the infamous Star-Lord as he called himself, or Peter Quill as she knew him, had the most lax hiring process she had ever seen.

He had taken one look at her, hit on her a few too many times, asked basic questions like “what’s your name” _Gamora,_ “Why do you want this job” _I don’t_ and “Can you make a latte” _no_ , and then just gave her the job.

She had been more than grateful at the time, but two weeks later she is beginning to regret taking this job.

Gamora tugs the orange apron over her head, pulling it off in one fluid motion that has Rocket, their cashier and ‘furry friend’ (as Peter liked to call him), making all sorts of suggestions about her possibly having been a stripper in a past life.

Thankfully, Drax isn’t around to hear it, because Gamora does really not feel like sitting down and having another conversation with him about when people are being serious versus being sexist assholes. The time before had been bad enough, and she still found herself insisting that “no, I’m not actually a sex worker, that guy was just offended that I made his drink wrong and thought whore was the best way to express his disgust.”

Instead it’s just her and Rocket working today, well technically Groot was there too, but Gamora wasn’t sure if he was their mascot or bodyguard half the time and either way Groot wasn’t making coffee.

“Go fuck yourself,” she tells him before balling the apron up and tossing it in his direction.

There’s a slight ‘oophm’ noise which tells her that her apron has hit it’s mark, as it should she didn’t get to be one of the most dangerous women in the galaxy without learning how to hit a fur ball.

Former most dangerous woman in the galaxy.

She was retired now, at least that was what Gamora kept telling herself.

Former assassin.

Former threat.

Former adopted daughter of one of the galaxy’s biggest mob bosses.

Now she was just the person who made subpar lattes, turned down all of Peter’s attempts to flirt with her, and tried to explain to Drax not to take anything Peter or Rocket said seriously.

“Have fun cleaning up,” she says, crossing over to the front of the store to flip off the glowing lights of the sign that indicates whether or not they’re open.

Rocket makes some half-assed noise of agreement, and says, “so much fun, best part of the job,” in a tone that is quite obviously dripping with sarcasm.

“I’ll see you two in the morning,” she asks.

“I am Groot.”

“Mhmm, no, it’s just you and Quill till lunch time, we’ve got places to be, people to see,” Rocket says in a very not descriptive way that would have worried her if it were anybody else.

“Try not to get arrested again.”

He just shrugs, and Gamora takes at as her cue to leave, with one last look around the coffee shop, she’s out the door, braving the nearly dark streets.

Everybody likes to act like Xandar is the pinnacle of peaceful living, that there’s no threats in the dark alleyways where the streetlights don’t illuminate, but as somebody who used to hide in the shadows she knows all too well what lurks behind the corners.

It is only the worry of her past creeping up on her that has Gamora hurrying down the streets towards where her apartment is, for there’s no threat she couldn’t easily have taken out on her own.

She’s had relative peace the last few days, she’s gone to work, made terrible coffee, came home to an empty apartment and things have been just fine.

Nobody from her past has jumped out of a dark alleyway and tried to cause any trouble, but she’s felt a ticking time bomb over her head for too long, waiting for the other shoe to drop and something bad to happen again.

Apparently she had waited just long enough.

For as she returned home that night she knew at once that her peaceful times had just about evaporated, there standing out against the metal door of her apartment was smear of blood that left far more to the imagination than Gamora would have liked.

Upon further inspection she notices that her door’s keypad was also covered in it, though the blood was mostly dry at this point, it was still there and still a sign of what could be waiting on the other side.

She braces herself for a fight as she opens the door, the apartment just as dark when she had left it, but now with the door open she can hear the sound of heavy breathing, that comes out in an all too familiar rhythm.

Gamora isn’t the type to sigh in relief, so that is most certainly not the sound that escapes her, but it’s pretty damn close.

“You’re not dead,” Gamora says, though whether it is a question or a statement is unclear even to her.

“Not yet,” the other voice comes out almost scratchy which would be more worrisome if it weren’t for the fact that they had been in this situation many times before.

Too many times to count.

“At least, tell me you didn’t bleed out on the couch.”

“I got us enough units to buy a new couch,” she says, finally appearing as Gamora flicks on the lights.

She looks no worse than usual, already having stitched herself up and put the robotic pieces of her back in order, and though there’s dried blood on the side of her face she can see no obvious wound and is forced to conclude that it came from whomever she had taken out.

“I liked that couch,” Gamora points out.

“More than you like me.”

She just shrugs her shoulders, which earns a bitter laugh from the other woman.

“Where am I going to sleep if you’ve ruined the couch,” she asks, because expressing concern is not the sort of thing the other woman would appreciate.

They’re both too stubborn for concern, too prickly to admit that they care about each other.

The reply is all too quick, “my bed,” and there’s a hint of an almost coy smile on her blue lips that Gamora would be damned if she ever admitted that she missed.

If they were any other people Gamora would have pointed out that in her current state, probably injured from whatever kill she had just completed, that taking it easy might have been the best idea. But this was different, this was them and it was a terrible thing that she couldn’t ever seem to get away from.

“That works,” she replies, before she can even regret it, and in a split second there are hands at her hips one almost soft while the other is cold to the tough, but it’s a touch she nevertheless finds herself melting into.

When they kiss there’s a stale taste of blood in the back of her mouth, but foolishly she thinks that it tastes like home.

\---

“You smell like shitty coffee,” she says later when they’re laying together in a bed that’s too small for two people, “shitty coffee and sex,” she corrects.

“I work in a coffee shop now,” Gamora admits, unsure why the words sound hesitant, she’s never been the type to sound hesitant with things before.

“Undercover work has never been your thing,” she points out, “plus you stick out like a-“

“Sore thumb.”

“Zucchini,” she finishes, “I was going to say Zucchini.”

“Sure you were.”

\---

It’s six in the morning when her alarm goes off, a shrill sound erupting through the room, and causing the woman next to her to curse under her breath.

“I told you I had work,” Gamora says when her complain continues to grumble about it being too early, “I’ll be back later, try to stay out of trouble and buy us a new couch.”

“Tell dad that he can go fuck himself, you’re mine this weekend,” she says, reaching up to tug Gamora back down.

“It’s not for him.”

She doesn’t mean for her tone to come out as bitter as it does, but it certainly must come through that way, because a second later she’s rolled over and is staring up at Gamora with a look that is clear confusion.

That was the thing about Nebula.

She was awful and vindictive, and believed that the best way to deal with the people that had wronged as to fight and kick and scream until she had gotten what she wanted. It made her a valuable asset in a fight, a dangerous ally to have, and an almost intoxicating figure to be involved with.

She enjoyed what they did, everything they did from fighting to fucking.

“You said it was undercover,” Nebula says, her voice scratchy and groggy from having just woken up.

“No, you assumed,” she corrects, as she moves to get dressed, not at all bothered by the eyes that are clearly on her back.

“You don’t even like coffee.”

“I don’t,” she agrees as her shirt goes over her shoulders.

“Then why?”

Because she’s sick of doing the work that they do, she’s sick of tearing families apart and scrubbing blood off of her skin.

But admitting that to Nebula is not something that’s about to happen, not when she’s just gotten back, and Gamora needs to get to work in an hour and cannot be distracted by hate sex.

“It’s something to pass the time.”

Nebula doesn’t have any more to say after that, in fact, she seems completely uninterested rolling back under their blankets and making the impression that she was going to go back to sleep. A small blessing as far as Gamora is concerned.

She’s almost out the door, shooting off a quick message to Peter reminding to actually wake up and open the shop when she hears a question spoken with a clarity that is almost startling.

“Does dad know?”

She hopes that the door slamming behind her is enough of an answer.

\---

“Somebody had a rough night.”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” she insists, concentrating on not slamming the buttons on the latte machine in her annoyance with Peter’s persistency, and instead calls out, “Carina, your pumpkin spice latte is up.”

“You know if you ever need to talk to anybody-“

“I don’t.”

“That I’m super here for you and willing to talk about anything.”

“That so?”

He nods his head, “and to prove it, want to hear about this Sakaaran girl that I hooked up with last night?”

“No.”

\---

“I almost didn’t believe her when I heard the news,” he says, placing a gloved hand down onto the counter with a distinct thunk.

“So she’s told everyone then,” Gamora asks, cursing under her breath because it’s only been a few hours.

Of course, she can imagine the situation well enough Nebula showing up to report to Thanos after her latest assignment, getting asked perhaps casually if she knew why Gamora hadn’t been around lately, and letting this whole thing slip.

He shrugs, “not everyone.”

“Korath-“

“Just me, though she means to tell more,” he elaborates, “unless you can give me a reason to convince her not to.”

“I’m sure I could give her a reason,” Gamora says, not skipping on the innuendo.

Korath has known them both long enough to be well aware of the arrangement that she and Nebula have, they all grew up together, orphans that had been taken in by one of the most fearsome men in the galaxy.

She would like to have said that he was a good caretaker, but that would have been lying.

The only thing he was good at was manipulating people and training children to be assassins for him.

They were both proof of that.

“I’m sure you could find a way,” he agrees, gaze sweeping across the nearly empty coffee shop.

She curses her luck that he would come in during one of their downtimes.

Though she had a hunch that was planned.

Still, knowing that the only person other than her in the shop was one, Peter Quill, wasn’t exactly the sort of thing that instilled much faith in her.

Peter had retreated back to the machines, trying to make himself look busy and non-threatening or whatever, almost as soon as Korath had entered the shop.

For somebody that owned the place, he sure could act the exact opposite when he wanted to. Then again, if the rumors were true that he had actually won this place in some sort of bet, rather than learning to run a respectable business, she could maybe understand his attitude.

Still, she wishes Rocket and Groot had been more serious about showing up around lunch time, or that Drax was here, because at least then she could have some semi-threatening backup.

Not that she needed backup.

But Peter was shit for that, and really it was the thought that counted.

“Look, were you going to order something or did you just come in here to interrogate me?”

“Large coffee, black.”

“Coming right up.”

\---

“So, who was that?”

“Ahh,” she pauses searching for the right world, before settling on, “an old friend.”

“Do all of your _old friends_ look like they’d stab you if you looked at them funny?”

“Pretty much, yeah.”

\---

By the time she gets back to the apartment it is empty, which she probably could have predicted.

Everything looks just about how she left it, the one thing different from the norm is the extra coffee mug sitting in the drying rack, that and the bloodstained couch are the only things that indicate that Nebula had even been there the night before and that their whole interactions hadn’t been something her sleep deprived mind had made up.

She almost hates the part of herself that hopes the next _assignment_ Nebula will get will be one that takes her to some far part of the galaxy for a month or two like the last one, as much as she normally loved having her around, the peace she had experienced the last few weeks was not something that Gamora really wanted to lose.

She was quite enjoying her freedom.

She knew it was only a matter of time before Thanos sent somebody to drag her back there, or made a threat that she could refuse.

But she would rather that the person who came to deliver that threat wasn’t Nebula.

That line of thought is a bitter one, one that keeps her up at night as she lays in the bed that technically isn’t hers, in the apartment that isn’t technically hers, and stares up and the ceiling trying to find a way to actually fall asleep.

She’s still awake when the door creaks open.

The clock on the bed stand reads that it’s nearing two in the morning, and the footfalls that come nearer and nearer to where Gamora lays are neither light nor considerate.

Of course, Nebula has the ability to move about unnoticed and unheard, so it’s quite apparent that the action is a deliberate one.

“You’re not asleep are you,” Nebula asks.

“Not anymore,” she replies back, choosing omission over lie.

“Sorry,” she returns, without any hint of an apology in her voice, before she asks, “is there anyways I can make it up to you?”

“Do you even have to ask?”

She doesn’t taste like blood when they kiss this time, instead it’s something tangy that Gamora can’t place, that bothers her for a brief moment, but any thought about the tangy flavor against her lips fade, when those lips leave to move further south.

\---

This time when Gamora wakes up Nebula is still there, poking around the kitchen, humming the tune to some song that Gamora has never heard before.

“I was going to make coffee,” Nebula says, “but apparently that’s your job now.”

When did her tone get so bitter?

Or had it always been that way, and Gamora had just chosen to ignore it.

“That it is.”

\---

“So,” Nebula asks later in the day, when they’re lounging around the apartment, “how long is this midlife crisis going to last?”

“It is not a midlife crisis,” she insists, “it’s a change in careers.”

“Nobody quits doing what we do. You just keep doing it until you die.”

She says it with such certainty.

Like stating a fact.

And maybe it is a fact.

That would explain the creeping feeling that Gamora feels down her spine every time she walks past a dark alley, the way ever patron that squints at her before insisting that she looks familiar nearly sets her off, and the reason she still keeps a knife stuck under her pillow.

“That’s not you foreshadowing that your next assignment is to kill me, is it?”

“I would say no if it was,” Nebula says, before scrunching up her face as if in deep thought and adding, “probably.”

“That’s reassuring.”

“I try,” she grins like a shark, “I did get my next assignment though.”

“Convince me to go back and talk to Thanos?”

“Dad figures you’ll come around eventually,” she says with a shrug, “not worth it to waste my efforts convincing you to stop with the midlife crisis nonsense.”

“It’s not a midlife crisis,” Gamora corrects her again, even though it is a moot point by now.

“Sure it’s not.”

“What is it then,” she asks, before specifying, “your assignment I mean.”

“Have you ever heard of Ronan?”

The name sounds vaguely familiar, but not in any way that clues her into what Nebula might be doing, so she just shrugs her shoulders.

“He runs this nightclub,” Nebula continues, “The Orb.”

The one she had heard of, if she remembered correctly from the few talks they had had around the coffee shop Drax used to work as a bouncer for the club or something, but one thing had led to another and they parted on bad terms.

The only thing she really she knew about the place from his explanations, was that it was a very crooked place, where no decent sort of person went.

She was pretty sure she also remembered Peter saying he had been there once, but that was only further proving the point that no decent person went there.

“What about him?”

“Dad’s got some interest in his little operation, for business opportunities, you know that sort of thing.”

By business opportunities Thanos either meant the drug market or some other form of organized crime.

Then again, nightclubs were always just ruses for illicit organizations on the inside.

“So, I’ll be staying on Xandar for a bit.”

That’s right, The Orb was in town.

“Oh.”

“Is that an excited _oh_ or a-“

“Excited,” she insists, even though Gamora isn’t sure if that answer is truthful or not.

But when Nebula says, “good,” and leans forward to pull her into a kiss, any thoughts about her truthfulness are discarded and silenced, because _this_ was what she was excited for.

\---

“You know I’m only asking how your weekend was, because I like you, right?”

“For some completely strange reason,” she points out.

“You’re hot and very mysterious,” he says, before clarifying, “like space.”  

“Is that supposed to be a compliment?”

“Yes, yes of course it is, back me up,” he searches around the shop for somebody to back him up, anybody, though the only person other than them in there won’t be helpful, still he bothers to ask, “Drax?”

“Gamora is a physical being whereas space is an infinite entity-“

“Nevermind you both suck.”

“What exactly do we suck?”

“Not him that’s for sure,” Gamora quips before Peter can a word in edgewise.

\---

“Let me guess, pumpkin spice latte,” she says, watching as the other woman’s face lights up.

This was why Gamora liked her job, the little things like this. Never before would somebody have smiled at her in a non-threatening way, or greeted her like they were genuinely happy to see her. The closest she got was her time with Nebula and even then there was a hint of sarcasm and threat in her words.

“I can’t believe you remembered me,” the girl mumbles, as she hands Gamora her can to scan, “nobody ever really – you know.”

“Of course, I remember you,” she insists, uncapping her pen to write the name ‘Carina’ on the side of the cup.

Yeah, this was why she put up with her terrible coworkers and made drinks that didn’t even sound appetizing half the time.

She hands the cup off to Drax, who is the only one of them that can actually make decent drinks, which probably has something to do with the fact that he actually read the instructions on how to work all of the machines and the recipes for the drinks, rather than winging it as she and the rest of the guys tended to do.

“And what can I get for,” she starts, as she turns back to the two figures who have now approached the counter, only to freeze.

There was something about them that was familiar, not in the way that any of her so called ‘siblings’ were familiar, but more in a _I think I’ve tried to kill you before_ kind of way.

The two men standing across the counter seem to be scrutinizing her just as much as she is to them.

But before she can make any sort of move, Drax seems to catch sight of what is going on and calls out, “Peter, your fathers are here,” in the direction of the backrooms.

“What,” she mouths, just as Peter appears from the back room looking slightly rumpled and without the companion that he had snuck back there with about an hour prior.

Though he may look slightly rumpled he brightens up at once at the sign of the two men at the counter and pushes Gamora out of the way in order to chat with them over the register.

She lurks over by the espresso machine, trying for casual and trying to make it less obvious that she is listening in on their conversation, but really nothing they're saying is anything of note, just small talk about the weather and some business they had on other planets.

The familiarity is still bothering her, but she supposes it could simply be because she had heard Peter chattering about them before.

She knew he came from a family of ‘outlaws,’ the junkers and errand boys of the galaxy, and that his ‘dad’ has something to do with Peter winning the Milano and opening the coffee shop. That and some mention of the fact that Peter almost got eaten by their crew as a child where the only things Gamora had heard about his so called family, then again, she had never shared much about her own _family_.

None of them did.

Except, Drax.

(Gamora knew all too well about how his daughter’s piano recitals were going and the favorite foods of his wife, but she was pretty sure that was just because he didn’t know when sharing became over sharing.)

She’s reminded that there’s more to her job than eavesdropping on Peter’s conversation with his family when the Pumpkin Spice Latte, is finished and handed off to her.

She steps back up to the counter then and calls out, “Carina, your drink is up.”

“I’ve met you before,” one of Peter’s ‘fathers’ says squinting at her.

Of course, the poor girl that came up to get her drink, and squeaks out, “me,” as Gamora thrusts the cup into her hand.

“Not you, her,” he corrects, pointing straight at Gamora.

“She just has one of those faces,” Peter comes to her defense, using the same excuse that Gamora has given many times when other people seemed to see something familiar in her.

“No, I do know you,” the bluer of the two says.

While the other seems to leap to the conclusion quicker, “aren’t you one of Thanos’ bitches?”

“He doesn’t mean that literally,” Gamora says at the same moment that Peter says, “it’s a metaphor.”

“Yes I do,” he insists.

“Kraglin, Drax here takes everything literally so,” Peter starts then stops, “wait, like the intergalactic mob boss, tried to kill me when I was eight, that Thanos?”

“You’re looking at his number one bitch-“

“Again, not literally.”

“-right there.”

“Former,” Gamora corrects, not entirely sure why she’s even admitting this to a group of thugs, “I’m retired from that now.”

“And you were foolish enough to believe that load of shit,” the guy, Kraglin, says turning on Peter, who has the decency to look sheepish.

“I didn’t even know,” he says in his defense, “until now, but okay, yeah whatever, it doesn’t matter.”

“Why not?”

It’s the other one now, the one with the really intense and angry looking stare; it’s a look that Gamora is more than used to in her line of work, _former_ line of work.

“Because,” Peter says drawing out the word so it seems to have twenty extra syllables, “Gamora said she was retired and I believe her.”

“What,” Kraglin says, at the same times as Gamora says, “you do?”

“Uh yeah,” he replies rubbing the back of his neck, “I mean, I don’t have any reason not to so, you know?”

Kraglin looks as if he has something to add to that, something negative that will crush the brief bit of a good mood that Gamora has had since the second those words left Peter’s lips, but he never gets the chance to speak because the other one cuts in and says, “if she kills you I’m not sending anybody to clean up the pieces of you that get scattered about.”

\---

“I’m sorry my space dads are dicks,” Peter says as they’re closing up the shop, “if it’s any consolation I think it’s cool that you have a space dad too, even if he did try to have me killed.”

“If he wanted you dead you would be.”

Peter laughs awkwardly at that, titters about a bit on his feet before asking, “wait, that’s not why you got a job here is it?”

“No,” she insists, “no, I told you I’m done with that stuff.”

“Okay, just double checking.”

\---

“Somebody had a bad day,” Nebula announces when Gamora get home.

Though a quick answer of, “I don’t want to talk about it,” cuts her off from anything she might have had to say on the subject.

And while others might have pushed the subject, might have taken in Gamora’s obviously displeased look and made her tea before demanding that they talk about their feelings, Nebula was not one of those people. The only thing she does to even show that she cares if faux-causally asking, “do I need to kill anybody?”

When Gamora shakes her head, the topic is essentially dismissed and instead Gamora is subjected to Nebula’s inner monologue as she in turn is used as nothing but a sounding board.

She watches from her position on their little couch as Nebula paces about the room, ranting about her current assignment, brainstorming plans, but not actually saying anything that clues Gamora into what is going on.

She can tell that Nebula is waiting for her to ask, so she can make some quip about curiosity killing cats or whatever, and fill in the parts she had deliberately left out.

But Gamora doesn’t give her the satisfaction of that.

“He’ll be here soon,” Nebula says for the third time that night, settling down on the couch to sit next to Gamora, though her eyes flicking over to the doorway again, “you’ll like him.”

“I doubt that,” she replies, quickly so that Nebula can barely even hear her.

“Well, whatever, if you don’t know big deal,” she says, trying to blow it off, but Gamora can tell that she’s irked, so she runs a light hand over the back of Nebula’s neck in an attempt to release some of her tension, “it’s just business.”

As if to prove her point there is a knock and the door.

“That’s probably him,” Nebula says, pushing herself up off of their ruined couch to cross over and throw the door open.

However, the person on the other side is obviously not who she had expected, because Gamora doesn’t even have to look up to know Nebula’s sign of distaste.

“Don’t slam the door, don’t slam the door,” the person on the other side says, in a desperate rush of words, and it’s only because Gamora recognizes the voice that she’s up off the couch as well, jamming her foot between the door and the wall so that Nebula cannot shut it as she clearly wants to.

“He’s here for me,” she says, wedging the door back open, ignoring the grunt of displeasure from Nebula and turning to give Peter the biggest glare she can manage, “though why exactly he’s here isn’t clear.”

“Uh, I can explain,” he offers.

“Can you now?”

He nods his head once, and she gives in opening the door wider, ignoring Nebula’s pointed stair, and gesturing him inside their apartment.

“Take a seat, make yourself at home,” Gamora says, trying to remember what normal people said when their coworkers showed up at their apartments.

Then again she had never really been normal, never the type to invite people over.

The only person that had really ever been in this space other than her was Nebula, who technically owned the apartment, and Korath, who was their favorite of boys Thanos took in, and thus was welcome when the two of them were in a good mood and he happened to be on the planet.

Having Peter there was different and sort of uncomfortable.

The air in the apartment seemed to be suddenly more uncomfortable and stuffy than it had been before.

“Who’s he,” Nebula asks, settling herself on top of their kitchen counter to squint almost angrily at Peter.

“A coworker,” Gamora replies, and the same time as Peter answers, “Star-Lord.”

She doesn’t bother to suppress her eye roll.

“What exactly are you lord over, _Star-Lord_ ,” Nebula asks, voice dripping with disdain.

“A coffee shop,” he answers hesitantly, as he takes a careful seat on their couch making sure to sit on the opposite side of the blood stain.

Nebula snorts not dignifying that with an answer, and Gamora tries not to roll her eyes too hard.

“Who’s she,” Peter asks, a repeat of Nebula’s own question fired back at her but yet directed through Gamora, because clearly everybody in her life is incredibly stubborn.

There were so many ways to answer that question, so many different truths that she could shell out, but instead she finds herself saying, “my sister.”

She can hear Nebula’s patronizing tone, even if it is whispered under her breath, so that the Terran misses it, “sister, is that what we’re calling it now,” but she refuses to respond to the bait and instead waits for Peter to explain why he’s here.

“So, she’s like you then, with the whole, uh, murder thing,” Peter asks, still staring at Nebula, who gives him a shark-like grin in return.

“I’m ten times worse than her, so watch your back pretty boy,” Nebula says, before pushing herself up off her perch on the countertop and heading to the door, “I’ll catch you later, _sis.”_

The sound of the door slamming echoes through their apartment for far too long, before it is finally broken by Peter taking a deliberate breath.

“So, she seems nice,” Peter says awkwardly.

“Nice is not the word you’re looking for.”

“No,” he admits.

“Did you come here to offend my-“ _sister_ that was the word she had used, and she supposed technically they could be considered to be sisters, if somebody considered Thanos to be their _father_ but she never had, she had always been deliberate in the past by insisting that she was no daughter of his and that they were not sisters.

It made their whole thing less _complicated_.

But now.

Thankfully Peter doesn’t make her finish that sentence and instead says, “I just wanted to stop by and apologize for my dads being dicks.”

“You already did that,” she reminds him.

“Yeah, I know but,” he shakes his head, “they’re awful, and they really mean well, they just worry about things – me, sometimes. And I wanted to make sure that them being complete a-holes didn’t convince you to quit or anything rash like that.”

“I’m not quitting,” she informs him.

“You’re not?”

“No.”

“Oh, awesome, great – that’s, super awesome.”

“If that’s all then-”

“I really think you're amazing, you know, awe-inspiring and shit. And the rest of the team really likes you working at the Milano, like you make things ten times more productive and remember the names of the chicks I hook up with so they don’t feel awful the next time I come in and can’t remember anything other than their bra size,” he lets out a sort of awkward laugh at that, before running a hand through his hair and continuing, “and I guess, that’s why I came here. To tell you again, that I don’t care if your space dad tried to murder me, or your space sister wants to murder me, I really just want you to keep being amazing and making decent lattes, forever.”

It was sort of weird, but Peter’s mismatched completely-terrible attempt at an apology was probably one of the nicest things she’d heard in a while.

Not that she lets any of that show, instead she just sighs and says, “I already told you I wasn’t quitting.

“I know, but-”

“And more importantly, how did you find where out where I live?”

“You wrote it on your application,” Peter says, but his tone is more questioning than anything else.

“No, I didn’t.”

She narrows her eyes, tries for the look that she would have used to get information out of prisoners before, it must work because a moment later he pales slightly and says, “I had Rocket hack the city records for me.”

\---

“Do you want to fuck him?”

“What? How can you even ask me that?”

“If he asked you to would you?”

“He has,” she points out, “and I’ve said no.”

“Oh sure, well excuse me, I was still trying to figure out why you’re working there,” Nebula says, voice turning vindictive and sharp, and just a hint of jealousy, a tone that Gamora is far too familiar with, “but then I saw your little boy toy come over and it makes sense. I thought you have a bit more class than that, but-“

“Fuck you.”

“Wouldn’t you like to.”

She would, of course she would, there was something about Nebula’s presence that just made her want to push her down onto a mattress until she can find a better use for that smart mouth of hers.

Instead though she hisses out a breath and says, “I’m not in the mood for hate sex.”

“Yes, you are.”

_Yes, she was._

\---

They’re still fighting, which is actually sort of great.

They don’t make needless small talk anymore, Nebula’s still in bed when she gets up for work, but comes in late enough in the night smelling of nicotine and tasting tangy, that they never get time to exist in the same space unless they’re pushing up against each other.

The hate sex is incredible.

This was just how she liked things.

But Gamora knows that good things never last.

Her next reminder of that comes with the sound of heeled boots clicking against the Milano’s metal flooring, and Rocket’s low whistle from the cash register.

“Hey gorgeous, haven’t see you around here before.”

“I’m looking for my _sister_ ,” the voice that replies is cutting and familiar, and Gamora from her spot back at the espresso machine knows who it is without turning around. Then again, if she wasn’t in such denial, she would have admitted that she knew the second the other woman walked into the room.

“Nebula,” she says, and her tone is really more of a warning when she turns around to see her sister glaring daggers at Rocket, “be nice.”

“I am being nice,” she insists in return, holding her hands up, both flesh and metal, as if that proves her innocence.

It’s the feral grin that she dons that says just the opposite.

“What are you doing here,” Gamora hisses when she’s crossed over to where Nebula is standing.

“Can’t I come to visit my _sister_ at her job,” Nebula asks, but the little pout she gives is obscured by the anger in her eyes.

“I’m not going to fuck you in the back room if that’s what-”

“Oh no,” she shakes her head, “the thought hadn’t even occured to me, but now-”

“Still no.”

“Because your boy toy is back there?”

“Were you going to order something.” She asks, already pissed with the way Nebula keeps playing around with things and walking in here like she owns the place.

“I want a large iced coffee,” she says reading off the menu over Gamora’s head, “extra whipped, extra cream, extra little bitch who freeloads off my apartment and-“

“Nebula!”

“Oh sorry,” she grins, not meaning it at all, “I mean, extra of those little rainbow colored sprinkles.”

\---

“You’re sister’s kind of a bitch, you know that right?”

“Oh, believe me, I know.”

“A hot bitch, but-“

“I am Groot.”

“We’d be down for a threesome if she was.”

\---

At least, the second time that Nebula decides to stop by the coffee shop Gamora isn’t surprised in the slightest. There had been an offhanded comment, the night before, when following some very wonderful hate sex Nebula had faux-casually mentioned that she had some errands to run the next day and might see Gamora around town.

She didn’t say it in a nice way, and a part of Gamora had hoped it was just some clever passive aggressive jab - the sort of thing Nebula was known for.

Her hopes didn’t exactly play out right.

Especially not when Nebula showed up in the coffee shop, not alone and looking for trouble, but with a vaguely familiar Kree lurking behind her.

He didn’t look much like the sort of person that usually got messed up in Thanos’ business, he looked far less corrupt nightclub owner with mob ties, and more unfortunate hipster that made the mistake of asking the mob to help him clean up some mess.

While Gamora has never actually seen him in person, Nebula has talked enough about her current assignment often enough that it’s not hard for her to put two and two together.

So this must be Ronan.

“You’re Gamora’s sister,” Peter says, upon noticing the newest person to enter their nearly empty coffee shop.

“Aww, you remembered me, how sweet,” Nebula coos at him in a mocking manner.

There’s a look on her face that is far too familiar, the one she has right before crushing the small insect on the sidewalk or finishing a job. Not that type of smile that Gamora liked to see Nebula aiming at her _boss._

“You’re sort of hard to forget,” he points out.

“You insulting me, _Star-Lord_?”

“Uh, not really, I mean I could, I’m just saying - you have one of those face that-”

“One of those faces,” Nebula repeats, and really Gamora knows she should step up and stop Peter from digging himself an even deeper hole with her, because at this rate he’s going to hit rock bottom soon and Gamora would prefer not to have to clean the blood up off the floorboards.

Thankfully, Peter seems to realize that as well, and chooses not to answer, but instead directs the conversation towards Nebula’s companion, asking simply, “whose he?”

“He’s my- ah,” Nebula pauses, locks eyes with Gamora, her lips twisting into a cruel smile and says, “my _boyfriend_.”

This, Ronan figure looks just as surprised about the term as she does, but her fakes a sort of awkward nod when Nebula pinches him in the side.

“We wanted to get some drinks while we talk business,” Nebula continues, not bothered by Gamora’s glare.

“Well, then, what can I get you,” she says making no attempt to seem courteous in the slightest, as she bumps Peter out of the way with a stern look that she hopes says _‘go hide in the back room until they leave’._

He doesn’t listen, but is at least out of the line of fire as Nebula turns on her fake little smile and says, “A large iced coffee, extra whipped, extra cream, extra rainbow sprinkles, and Ronan will have,” she pauses, eyes flickering to her companion for a brief moment, but the Kree is distracted by some pamphlet that had been pinned up to the store’s walls advertising a music festival, so she answers for him saying, “the same as me.”

As long as Gamora focuses on making the drinks she can ignore the strong urges to look over at where Nebula and Ronan sit at one of the tables having a sort of hushed business conversation. That and the almost predatory glances that Ronan has as he takes multiple sweeping looks through the shop makes her uneasy.

Still she manages to make the drinks without messing up, and gets the satisfaction of seeing Ronan looking very disappointed by the amount of rainbow sprinkles in his drink, when she sets them down with a thud on the table they’re currently occupying.

At least one of the two people sitting there manages to get out a, “thanks,” before their conversation resumes.

If she spends the rest of the time they’re in the coffee shop casting glances their way and doing a terrible job with the other drink orders that come through, well then really Peter can’t blame her, since he’s doing the same thing.

It would be a lie to say that the two of them both breathed a sigh of relief when Nebula and her assignment finally stood up to leave the Milano.

But it was a pretty close thing.

Though not before Nebula threw in one last stinger.

“Oh and Gamora,” Nebula says, turning around just as she’s about to exit the Milano in order to fix her an unwavering glare, “dad wants to talk to you when you get the chance.”

\---

“They seem like a… _nice_ couple _.”_

“Nice is still not the word you were looking for,” she corrects.

“Yeah, no not at all,” he agrees, “kinda terrifying, that’s what I was going to say.”

\---

She knows she should have made a call, she should have given Thanos whatever he wanted, the dignity of one conversation and let it be done with.

Except she knew that wouldn’t be the end of it, that there would still be more to deal with.

Assuming she wasn’t killed on the spot.

She had intended to ask Nebula more about it that night, but she never turned up, nor did she the next day or the one after that, and Gamora just sort of figured she was off on her assignment and didn’t bother with doing anything about the fact that a certain blue thorn was currently out of her side.

Until she goes to work the next day, and notices those on the other side of the counter staring at her longer than usual.

Her answer for their prolonged stares eventually comes from their ever wonderful part-time cashier.

“Out of curiosity, is there any reason that there should be a bounty on your head,” Rocket asks while they’re in the middle of working their shift, he’s been staring at his reader for most of the shift (not an unusual occurrence, for she had gathered early on that he and Groot were freelance bounty hunters in their spare time, always looking for jobs to go off on), but now as he tilts the display at her she can tell why.

There on the screen is her picture, clear as day, as well as the bounty details ( _wanted alive_ ) and the payment ( _ten thousand units)._

Was it bad that her first thought was that Thanos was being cheap?

“Would you let me turn you in,” Rocket asks, stealing the reader back, “We could really use those units.”

“No,” she answers briskly and tries to go back to work.

“We won’t even use the bag, tell her Groot, tell her we won’t use the bag.”

“I am Groot.”

“See,” Rocket says, as though Gamora should somehow have understood Groot’s strange language.

“The answer is still _no._ ”

“You ruin all the fun.”

“Thank you,” she quips back.

“And why does Thanos want you anyways,” Rocket asks, “he gonna kill you?”

She opens her mouth to tell Rocket that really it is none of his damn business and that shouldn’t he be working, but before she can get the words out of her mouth, it’s Peter who yells, “THANOS IS HER ADOPTED SPACE DAD,” from the back room loud enough that everybody (including their few customers) can hear.

The urge to slam her head into the nearest solid object so that she can put herself out of the impending misery is far higher than it’s ever been in her life.

“The galaxy’s biggest mob boss is your dad,” Rocket says, in a tone that almost sounds like appreciation.

“Try to contain your excitement,” Gamora warns.

“So, he probably wouldn’t kill you then, right? Just give us the reward money?”

“The answer is still no.”

And she’s not entirely sure, but the next time she hears the three words, “I am Groot,” it sounds as if the tree is honestly disappointed in her.

Rocket’s sad baby animal face doesn’t help either.

“Don’t you two have jobs to be doing?”

\---

“You know, Yondu did that once to me, I skipped out of town one night while we were on shore leave, ended up hooking up with this really hot-“ he stops, takes a look at her displeased face and chooses to shorten up the story, “anyway, when I didn’t show up in the morning he put out a thousand unit bounty on whoever brought me home.”

“That’s how we met,” Rocket interjects.

“Yeah, it was just his way of showing that he cared and was worried where I’d disappeared to,” Peter continues, “I’m sure your space dad’s just worried you haven’t stopped by lately.”

“Thanos isn’t like your, uh, _space dads,”_ she grimaces, “if he wants me back there it’s not for a lecture it’s,” to end her.

“Gamora-“

“I’m clocking out early tonight.”

\---

“You said it was urgent,” Nebula says when she finally shows back up at the apartment, having clearly gotten Gamora’s message.

She thinks for a second that the look on the other woman’s face is almost one of worry, bit it’s hard to tell with Nebula, especially since her default setting seems to be either vindictive or sarcastic.

The thought that Gamora might be seeing a genuine emotion almost makes her want to assure Nebula that she’s fine, but then she remembers the discussions they have had too many times to count about how this wasn’t one of _those_ relationships.

Those being the type of relationships where they actually care about each other for more than just a quick release.

“There’s a bounty on my head,” she says, trusting the display into Nebula’s hands.

“I told you dad wanted to talk to you,” Nebula’s face goes through a complex series of emotions, before she just shrugs.

“About what?”

She shrugs again, but her mischievous grin makes it quite obvious that she knows exactly what Thanos wants for her, and is zero percent willing to talk about it.

“Nebula-“

“At least, he wants you alive,” Nebula cuts in, eyes scanning the reader that Gamora had thrust at her moments before, “I mean, that’s less fun but..”

She knew the end to that but, the last time there had been a bounty on either of their heads, it had been Nebula and the report had read _dead or alive_.

“What does he want,” she repeats the question, this time more firm, because firmness was something that Nebula sometimes responded to.

Instead of a response though, she got a slightly peeved look, and the sight of Nebula worrying her lip between her far too sharp teeth before she finally said, “You know, I could always bring you in, collect the units, buy us a new couch.”

“That doesn’t answer the question.”

“No, it doesn’t,” Nebula agrees, setting the reader down on the table.

“Why don’t you just answer it?”

“Why don’t you just make me?”

She never ends up getting an answer to the question, but she pushes Nebula back against the wall so hard that she has to pop her metal shoulder back into place the next morning, and that at least is a bit satisfying.

\---

“You really need to buy us a new couch.”

“Why,” Nebula asks, “we both fit just fine on this.”

“That’s not the point.”

“What is the point then?”

\---

She doesn’t go up there, but she’s pretty sure the message she sends her in her place is a big enough “ _fuck you_ ” and “ _leave me alone_ ” that Thanos gets the hint.

She always was his favorite ‘daughter,’ even if she was going through a ‘rebellious phase.’

(Korath’s words not hers.)

At least the bounty is off her head, a fact that she knows purely because the next time she works a shift with Groot and Rocket, neither of them are staring at her with the ‘pouty faces’ attempting to get her to give in and let them collect the units.

“Did you at least collect them yourself,” Rocket asks, when he’s given up on the pouty face and has turned into the slightly annoying coworker that she actually didn’t mind too much.

He was weirdly charming for a furball.

“No,” she replies, just in time to hear his groan.

“You know we would’ve split the money with you,” Rocket reminds her, “we all could have made bank off of this, no more terrible coffee and minimum wage-”

“I am Groot!”

“Correction, decent coffee and just barely more than minimum wage.”

“Maybe I like terrible coffee and barely more than minimum,” Gamora replies, a smirk on her green lips.

She’s pretty sure that the laugh she gets in reply is fake.

She’s pretty sure she doesn’t care that it is.

“Don’t you have a job to be doing?”

“Don’t you?”

\--

“Did he send you to kill me for my insolence?”

“Not yet,” Korath replies, shoulders shrugging almost casually.

“Does he intend to?”

He shrugs once more.

“Do you-” but the door of their apartment opens before Gamora can finish the sentence.

And Nebula’s, “look who finally stopped by to visit,” ends the conversation before it can even begin.

\---

“Your creepy cyborg sister and her Kree boyfriend that looks like a serial killer are in the shop,” Peter announces, “ _again_.”

“Great,” Gamora replies, before going back to counting up their supplies, and making no move to leave the backroom whosoever.

“Are you going to go say hi or something,” Peter pesters, “because they’re scaring my other customers away and-“

“No.”

“If I whine and pester you will you give in?”

He almost looks pitiful when she looks over, hair a mess from where he’s run his hands through it, that awful orange apron wrinkled beyond repair, and an almost pleading look in his eyes. She can just imagine the sort of whining and pestering that would ensue if she continued to stay back there, and _that_ was the only reason that she gave in, sighing bitterly, if that was a thing and saying, “fine.”

She purposely ignores how he punches the air in celebration of his victory of getting her out of the backroom.

Nebula is sitting on the counter when Gamora enters the main area of the coffee shop, while Ronan and Drax seem to be in the middle of some weirdly intense staring contest that has her instantly on edge.

Though their contest quickly comes to an end when Nebula coos, “just the woman I’ve been waiting for!”

“If you needed something you could have-”

“Actually, I couldn’t,” Nebula says,  “see _dad_ commed me this morning, with a very important message.”

She suddenly wishes that she was still in the habit of being armed even when passing as a civilian, her skin itches in preparation for what she imagines their fight will be like. She’s fought Nebula before, they trained together for many years, so she knows the other woman’s weaknesses.

That doesn’t necessarily mean that she wants things to get to a point where she actually has to use that information.

Gamora keeps her voice casual when she says, “oh?”

She nods her head, eyes unblinking as she looks up to meet Gamora’s, “he’d like to buy this little coffee shop of yours-”

“Technically it’s-”

“Peter, not now,” Gamora cuts him off.

But the spell has been broken and Nebula is no longer looking at her, but rather at Peter, “just name a price, next time I come back, and don’t think about it too hard- I’d rather not have to take this place by force.”

And then, just like that she was gone once more, dragging Ronan with her.

\---

“You do not get to ruin my life like this-”

“ _Ruin your life_? Really, Gamora, I never knew you to be so overdramatic”

“For once I want to do something that isn’t under Thanos’s thumb and you have to-”

“I was just following orders! He told me to go down there and make an offer-”

“I forgot all you do is follow orders.”

“Get out.”

\---

“Where are you doing?”

“You told me to get out-”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” Nebula insists, though what she actually meant is a mum point.

They’ve cooled down a bit from earlier, or at least Nebula seems to have. When Gamora returned from her long walk around the neighborhood, she had found the other woman sprawled out on the couch reading something on her tablet. She hadn’t even reacted at Gamora’s entrance, and only seemed to have noticed something was up when Gamora was in the middle of packing her bags.

“You don’t have anywhere else to go,” Nebula says.

“I have friends.”

There’s a snort, and she doesn’t bother looking to see the expression on the other woman’s face, “those losers from the coffee shop dad wants to buy?”

“They’re my friends,” she corrects, with a stubborn tilt to her chin.

“Yeah, whatever you say, well when they all show their true colors and you have no where to stay - I’ll leave the door unlocked.”

“There’s no need,” Gamora says, pulling her back up onto her shoulder, “after all, you wouldn’t want somebody breaking in while I was away.”

“Gamor-”

“Don’t,” she just cuts her off, picking her bags up off the ground, she turns to leave the apartment without saying another word.

\---

“Hey? Out of curiosity how did you find where I lived?”

“Work records,” she says, not even bothering to try and make the lie sound believable.

“Rocket?”

“That would be it.”

\---

“I really like you,” Peter admits, “and I say this as a friend, if what’s going to make you okay and happy again is to fix things with your _sister_ then I’m happy to help.”

“She’s not really my sister, I mean, she is but-“

“I think I got the gist,” he says shrugging, “I mean, I don’t know how things are on your planet, but nobody I know checks out their sister as much as you do.”

“I don’t-”

“When you’re not glaring daggers at each other, your eyes are like glued to her ass,” Peter continues, “not that it’s a bad ass. I mean, in another life I might have considered,” he takes one look at her face and is smart enough to not finish that sentence, “look, it’s obvious you two are like a _thing_.”

“I see,” she drawls.

He nods his head weakly, “Look sometimes life is going to hand you songs that you don’t know the lyrics to, but does that mean you get to sit there and refuse to dance along?”

“Yes-“

“No, it doesn’t,” he insists.

“What are even doing?”

“I’m being deep and metaphorical and romantic, like the guys in the movies always are right before they sweep the girls off their feet-“

“Does that usually work?”

“It did for Harrison Ford and Kevin Bacon, and you can’t deny that it’s working right now?”

“Your useless attempts to flirt with me-“

“Are working like a charm?”

“Not at all.”

“Look, I’m just trying to be helpful you know, giving you relationship advice, that’s what friends do,” Peter says.

“You’re giving me _relationship advice_.”

“Would you rather I got Groot and Rocket over here, I could call the, or Dr-“

“No, nevermind, you’re just fine,” she cuts him off.

“I know I am.”

“So, to be clear, what you’re saying is that I should be more like – ah, like you’re Kevin Bacon fellow.”

“Exactly!”

“And how exactly do I do that,” she finds herself grimacing even as she asks the question, because suddenly Peter lights up.

“This calls for a movie night!”

“Please no-”

“You’re the one staying at my apartment, you could easily avoid this by-”

“Killing you.”

“Going back to your- wait, killing me? Why is it that I fear for my life every time you’re around? Not cool, Gamora, not cool.”

\---

  
“Dancing is illegal on your planet?”

“No, just in this town-look it’s a movie don’t question it-”

“If I’m using it for educational purposes, shouldn’t I-”

“Just let the awesome that is Kevin Bacon wash over you!”

\---

There’s no going back now, sure she could turn around and slam the door and walk out like she had tried to do before, but there’s a part of her that knows even if she does they’ll eventually end up in that cycle again, and she needs to put an end to that.

She needs to put an end to it right now, while Nebula is sitting on that stupid blood stained couch, giving her a look that a confused glare at best, and asking, “what the hell are you doing here,” like she has the right to ask that anymore.

 “Look you’re a really shitty person sometimes, all the time,” Gamora starts, “and I’m not about to deny that-“

“Really, that’s what you’re going with here-”

“But I love you,” she blurts out, which is not the words she meant to say at all.

“What?”

She could take it back right now, she could pretend that she had actually said something else, anything else, but instead, the next words she manages to form are, “I love you.”

The look on Nebula’s face is one that she’s never seen before, it’s like the hard exterior that she had grown so familiar with had cracked, leaving behind the scared little girl that she had been when they’d first met hiding out in one of Thanos’ many back rooms.

“Oh,” Nebula says, the words carrying so much weight, even with their obvious eloquence, “oh.”

“Yeah, I-”

“I love you too,” she finishes, and it’s rough, and the words are pushed out as though they are the most shameful thing Nebula has ever, said, but they’re there out in the open.

Gamora cannot help but find it sort of ironic that the first noise she can seem to form after the revelation is, “oh.”

She’s not sure which one of them starts laughing first, but it’s a such a relief and there’s tension leaving her chest, and when they’re kissing a moment later it seems inevitable and perfect and everything she had been waiting for.

And maybe things might not be perfect right now, but if all those terrible movies Peter had made her watch taught  her anything, it was that maybe they could find a way to work things out.

\---

A FEW MONTHS LATER

“Hey, I’d like a large iced coffee, extra cream, extra-“

“You’re back.”

“Yeah, I just got back actually, couldn’t wait to see you,” it’s an admission that months before she would never have given, back then they didn’t talk about their feelings, but now – now Nebula is standing in front of her looking a little banged up, but smiling a genuine smile.

“I missed you,” Gamora finds herself admitting, the words so true, the last week or so without her around had been boring as all hell.

“Eww, don’t be all sentimental,” she groans, but it’s playful and teasing.

It’s oddly refreshing.

“You know you like it.”

“What I would _like_ is an iced coffee,” she corrects, “and the time you get off.”

“I’m closing tonight.”

“Hey, Asshole,” Nebula calls out, and for a second Gamora can’t figure out who she’s talking to until she sees Peter exiting the backroom with a stack of papers in his arms, “Gamora’s getting off early tonight.”

“If your girlfriend is bleeding on the floor again you have to clean it up,” Peter calls over his shoulder, on his way out of the cafe, “like really soon because our health inspection is coming up and- oh dear god, there is a dead body outside the shop!”

“If you let her off early I’ll move him,” Nebula calls back at him, before turning to her with a mischievous smile, “I was going to clean it up!”

“Really,” Gamora asks, leaning across the counter.

“Eventually,” Nebula admits, meeting her half-way across the counter to press a quick kiss to her lips.

“Like how you’re eventually going to replace the couch?”

“Exactly.”

 


End file.
